


Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit

by wraithnoir



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Depictions of slavery, M/M, Roman Britain, Warnings May Change, also please forgive any of my mistakes in roman horsemanship, but i'm no equestrian myself, i'm researching and doing my best here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithnoir/pseuds/wraithnoir
Summary: As they continue to settle into their new estate, Marcus and Esca are presented with a competition that will provide enough money to let them expand their stables. An accident makes both of them confront what their lives before they knew one another meant, and what how the secrets of that history still affects them to this day.





	1. Eques

“If you run like that, you know I’ll scold you. So why do you insist?” Esca asked as he pressed his knees against the sides of horse beneath him, feeling it strain again to the right. It had occurred to him several times since the farm had become Marcus’ and Marcus had insisted it was also his, what he could be. Cunoval of the Brigantes had been a horse lord, a warrior chieftain proud of his herds. Though he was no longer in the lands of his father, Esca wanted to be surrounded by horses again, their broad chests and firm legs, their warm breath. So among the growing fields, the wheat that would rise to wave at the sun, they now had five horses and had hopes to breed more. Esca had hopes for the stallion he rode out now, great hopes that he would be the father of a colt come spring. 

Arcus tried to get his head again and Esca calmly reasserted his hold on the reins, bringing the stallion back to his control. He closed his eyes as he smiled up at the sun, content for the moment as the creature beneath him subsided back to a walk so they could return to the stableyard at a more dignified pace. To be truthful, Esca didn’t blame the stallion for wanting to run. There were still days that he wanted to be the one straining forward against the strength of his own legs and the depth of his own lungs, to escape a nameless anxiety that ran below his life even now. Sitting quietly before an evening fire with Marcus, he had tried to explain it. 

“But you’re free now,” Marcus had insisted, his brown eyes earnest and apologetic at the same time as they were confused.

“But I was a slave,” Esca had said softly. “You’ve never known what that is. And I’ll never remember again what it is not to know I was one.”

On horseback, he was free, and this land was theirs. That was what he reminded himself when the sun rose high over his head, over the wheat and the house and the stables and Marcus and the other slaves. Maybe that was the problem now. Even with Marcus working alongside them, as he insisted he spend some time at each day, they were his reminder as they were somehow not Marcus’. You can be a citizen and still not be Roman, he told himself. Or maybe it was his father’s voice. His brother’s. Someone dead to time and place, someone who had worshipped by the waters.

Esca’s hand smoothed the stallion’s neck as they rode back into the yard. There were two figures waiting for him; he squinted against the light to identify them. The one closest to the fence was easy to know; Esca felt that he would know him by the way he breathed out in the darkness or the way his own breath caught when he was near him. Silhouetted by the sun as it lowered itself toward the horizon, Marcus leaned against the fence in a way that would look casual to anyone but Esca. To his eye, Marcus was tired after a long day and his leg was feeling its long-healed wound. The other figure was thinner but likely of the same height as Marcus if he hadn’t been leaning. It wasn’t a shape Esca recognized, but then, there were many people in the region he didn’t know. He knew the household and those families Marcus invited to dine with them as he folded himself back into Roman society. Even then, he knew them by name and face and the details Marcus told him both before the dinner and then the really interesting things after the meal, when the guests had left and both his memory and his tongue had been relaxed by the wine. Drusilla, wife of Quintus Amicus, had been rumored to use frogs in some unknown way to keep her skin smooth. Quintus himself had once fallen from a tree which he had climbed to prove his youthful strength to his son and had lost one of his testicles to either the accident or the surgeon. Esca liked to listen to all the stories with a smirk on his face and his eyes closed as he rested his own wine-heavy head on Marcus’ chest while they reclined on his bed. Lazy and finished with the rest of Rome for the day, that was the way he liked to be in general. If he couldn’t be with his horses. 

The crux of this all being that he had no idea who was standing with Marcus, which wasn’t a huge surprise, but wasn’t the most pleasant of them. He would rather have come back to his lover waiting for him, so they could talk as Esca fed and watered the horses and then as they walked back to the villa together. The dark outline of a stranger meant a stranger at dinner, someone who would squint at his light hair and pale eyes and mark out the ways he was not a Roman, regardless of his freedom or his legal citizenship. But it did mean the promise of some delightful stories as the evening wore on and he had Marcus to himself. 

As he drew close, Esca could make out their faces, Marcus’ already smiling as he turned away from his conversation to wave a hand in greeting. The stranger stood straight, with both hands before him on a walking stick of dark wood. He wore a trimmed beard and Esca wondered at it for a moment; he wasn’t used to facial hair anymore. Perhaps he was becoming more Roman that he’d thought. Other than that, the stranger wasn’t too fascinating. His nose was thin and humped, his limbs lean and straight, his eyes keen, and his mouth unsmiling as he watched the approach of man and horse. Esca slowed the stallion to an easy walk as he drew closer, then swung down from his back to lead him the last few steps.

“Esca,” Marcus said warmly, standing up from where he’d been leaning. “How does Arcus ride today?”

“Worse than yesterday, better than the day before. It’s a process, but Arcus and I will finish the journey together.” Esca smiled a little, rubbing his hand on the horse’s neck. He was rewarded with a snuffle at his hair, which only made his smile a little broader. So he was able to turn that smile to the stranger as Marcus presented him.

“Good! Esca, please meet Arruns Secudius Plautis, a friend of my father’s from before I was even born. Arruns, this is Esca Mac Cunoval. He is my co-conspirator on our lands.” To his credit, he didn’t stumble at all over Esca’s name or try to colonize the pronunciation. Marcus’ smile was proud and in the corners of it, Esca saw the other things he was to him -- lover, companion, comforter, tormentor, keeper of his memories, soother of his pain. He wondered briefly, as he stepped forward to clasp Arruns’ wrist, what words for him Marcus saw in his own smile. 

“Welcome,” Esca said simply. “You see one of our ongoing works with Arcus. He is young and spirited, but the fastest in these parts. I know as I’ve felt myself near to flying as we have ridden through the hills. Sometimes other horses, those of our neighbors, give chase. They fall behind as though they were sheep and not horses at all.”

Arruns nodded to him, though his grip on Esca was quick and he immediately gripped the handle of his walking stick again. “We watched you approach; his speed is undeniable. As is your skill. He tries to take back control; you must have a very firm hand to take that much power into it.” 

“We are not master and slave, Arcus and I,” Esca said quietly, his open palm stroking down the stallion’s neck. Under his hand, the horse was still and waiting, his energy calmed for the moment. “That is not how the race is won.”

“Speaking of races!” Marcus chuckled to himself, gesturing with one hand. “But, no, no, I’m getting ahead of myself. Come in to dinner, Esca. We’ll talk over wine. Arruns has much to speak of that I think you’ll like to hear.” 

Esca thought that Arruns was watching him too closely but refused to meet his gaze, instead turning his eyes to look at Arcus whenever Esca tried to catch them with his own. He thought that Arruns didn’t particularly like to see a Briton this close and know he was as free as he was, as suffused with rights as he was. A friend of Marcus’ father could be filled with old ideas that he had not let go since he had never had to come face to face with people those ideas had relinquished. His hand tightened on the reins, feeling the worn corners of them line up against his palm. 

“I’m happy we’ll have company this evening,” Esca said evenly. “I’ll join you at the villa after I get Arcus settled.” 

“You could leave him to Felix,” Marcus suggested. There was a little question in his voice, down in the undertone like the current deeply hidden in a river. Of course he wanted him to walk down with them to the villa now. But Esca didn’t want to stay like this, sweaty from the day, smelling of horse and exertion, with his hair messy and pulling out of the thong he’d tied it back with, as they made their way down the path to the house. He wanted to come to the table washed and wearing fresh clothes, his hair combed and the emerald bracelet from Marcus on his wrist. Then he would recline at the table and take the same wine that they did and he would be equal to Arruns, not just the horse trainer in the field. For now, he smiled at Marcus.

“It will remind Arcus that our bond is not ended just because I am no longer in the saddle. You’ll forgive my temporary absence? I will come to you as soon as I can.” He bowed slightly to Marcus’ guest. “It was good to meet you. I look forward to speaking with you more at dinner.”

“A pleasure to see you astride, Esca.” Again, the name seemed alien to his tongue, and Esca wished there was something else he could be called when Arruns was speaking. “To dine with you both will be a delight.”

“We’ll see you when you come, Esca.” Marcus smiled at him. “Don’t be too long.”

“My stomach will not let me tarry.” Esca was happy to hear Marcus’ little laugh; it felt private between the two of them. 

“Then let it lead you home.” Marcus was still smiling as he turned to Arruns. “Come, we will leave Esca to his stallion, and we will to our wine.” 

Esca watched them as they headed down the path until he felt Arcus pull a bit and he turned away from the shapes of the two men as they walked toward the villa. Arcus watched him with sentient eyes, clever and testing. What a glory of a horse, Esca thought to himself. He was no puzzle to unlock or a beast to tame. He was the type of horse Esca had always dreamed of knowing as he knew himself, and riding to feel that they were one body and one mind.

“Ah, no, you don’t get to take some attitude now. Come. Let’s get you settled before I go and make myself presentable.” 

Dinner was much of what Esca had expected. He was quiet as Marcus and Arruns talked about local affairs, much quieter than he would have been had it just been the two of them. There was something mercantile about the thin man; it seemed that there was something he wanted from Marcus but he wouldn’t just come out and say it. Before the sweets course had come out, Esca wanted to climb over the table and shake him until he managed to stutter it out. 

When talk had fallen to a type of wine Esca had never heard of, he gave himself over to his imaginings more fully. While at first he contented himself with the mental shaking of Arruns, eventually he was able to let the man go and focus on his true interest. Tomorrow he planned to run Arcus past the vineyards, lining him up against those long rows of trellised grapevines with their thick sweet scent in the air. He would take him down to show him the series of low, crumbling walls he’d found while exploring the estate when he’d first arrived. Arcus had it in him to be a jumper, as his horse as a first year warrior had been, the horse that had been a gift when he’d still just been his father’s armor-bearer. Horme had been fast and sure, smaller than Arcus as British horses were, but there had been no terrain he wasn’t master of, no obstacle to spook him. His imagination took him from his tall, still uncertain steed to remembering the cream of Horme’s heavy mane and the pride he’d taken in braiding his own hair to match that of his mount’s, little complicated plaits with beads on one side of his head. Horme had been the one to fetch one of his elder brothers when Esca had taken a spill into a brook the horse had just jumped. He likely would have drowned, unconscious and face down when his head struck a rock, had the horse not decided it also had canine loyalty. The scar snaked back behind his ear, hidden by his hair, though Marcus’ fingers found it unerringly when he caressed him. 

“So I knew you’d be interested, Esca. What do you think?”

The sound of his name brought Esca back from the mixed past and present weaving through his head. What was he interested in? He turned his head and met Marcus’ smile, but not before he had seen Arruns staring at the side of his head. Cursing silently, he shook his head to let his hair fall over his cut ear. Of course he had absently brushed his hair behind it, and of course the man would take a keen interest in it. This was exactly why he’d been growing his hair longer, for all the good it had just done him.

“What do I think?” he managed finally, reaching for his nearly untouched wine glass.

“Of a race.” Marcus’ voice was almost childishly breathless with excitement.

“You’re racing?” Esca looked between the two. “There is no one to beat you in a chariot, so I’ve heard from your uncle Aquila.”

“Not me!” Marcus laughed with good humor and Esca wondered if there was pain behind it as well. His racing days were most likely over, and he felt a little bit of guilt for asking the question to which Marcus had had to answer no. “Not a chariot race. Just man on horse. For a fine prize. And not just the money purse.”

Esca frowned slightly and shook his head. “What else then?”

“A lovely Bedouin mare, of a breed you rarely see in these parts. Much finer than the horses you see in any stable around here,” Arruns said smoothly and Esca bristled, as he’d been expected to. “Her fine face, her roasted almond coat, the lines of her legs...she is unmatched. Her foals will be celebrated throughout the empire.”

“A fine prize indeed,” Esca said suspiciously. “What does the man organizing the race get in return, besides the joy of local entertainment.” There were good riders and good horses in the area. Marcus and Esca had gone to the horse market several seasons. The white mare Marcus preferred had been costly. Arcus had been cheap; Marcus had bought him as a gift to Esca and had kissed his cheek with a laugh as he’d presented him.

“I will have the entrance fees of the brave riders,” Arruns said with an oddly modest lowering of his eyelashes. Esca felt queasy at the expression. “And the joy of the entertainment, as you said. You are a bold rider, Esca. Marcus believes you would wish to ride in a race, and he has already half-made a wager that you would win.”

“On Sol.” 

“On Arcus.” Esca wasn’t sure what made him speak so quickly.

“The horse we saw you with in the field?” Arruns smiled slowly. “Marcus, I will see your wager.”

Marcus laughed and sat up as the trays of fruit were brought to the table, and he grinned over at Esca. Esca smiled back, warming to Marcus’ pride in him but still feeling that something was strange. It had to just be the presence of Arruns in their home, he told himself. It would be good to race, and even better to win it. The money would go to the estate. The breeding mare would be the mother of their future.

After dinner, Esca lounged in just the way he preferred-- Marcus, stretched out over his bed with a cushion under his knee to take some of the pressure off it, and then Esca could drape himself over his lover for his own comfort. He looked up at the ceiling with eyes that were a little dazed with wine and food, letting his gaze travel the curved path that was painted along the upper border of the walls while Marcus lazily ran his fingers through his hair. Perhaps he felt a little like a stroked pet, but he was comfortable and content so his mind didn’t even put up too much of an argument.

“I’ll see you even less now, won’t I?” Marcus asked quietly, a smile in his voice. “Training for the race will consume you.”

“You think I’ll be so easily obsessed?” Esca scoffed without much heat.

“I know you’ll want to win.” They were both quiet a moment in perfect agreement. “Esca.”

“Hmm?” Esca closed his eyes, then opened them when Marcus didn’t continue. “Did you fall asleep on me?”

Turning over and resting his forearms on Marcus’ chest, Esca found himself looking down into the other man’s solemn face. “What?” he smiled, wrinkling his nose. “What’s that face for?” Marcus’ dark eyebrows were flat across his brow, his mouth pulled slightly to one side. He shifted to lean up on one elbow, pushing his other hand into Esca’s hair. The broad fingers sliding against his scalp made Esca shiver slightly.

“Not Arcus,” he requested softly. “Any other horse but Arcus.”

“Marcus…” Esca took a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh, letting the pressure of Marcus’ hand on the back of his head draw him down to put his forehead against his chest. “He’s the fastest.” His words were muffled against Marcus’ bare skin, but as they were no surprise, Marcus was able to reply.

“And the most unpredictable. He threw you not a week ago, and you’d have broken your neck if not for those bushes that we still haven’t gotten around to trimming.” He was trying to keep his tone light, the fear behind it thrummed in his chest. “Don’t try to tell me that in a month’s time you’ll have gotten him completely in hand. He’s got something wild in him and that wildness wants to kill you.” 

Esca laughed as he raised his head. “Wants to kill me? That’s the wine talking.” 

“It isn’t! I’ve caught that horse’s eye and there’s murder in it. Esca. Please.” Marcus met his eyes, trying not to smile at the wicked expression on the other man’s face. “Esca…” He made a noise when Esca ducked to kiss his collar bone. “Esca...I’m trying to be serious here.”

Esca trailed his mouth down Marcus’ chest, knowing that the room wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone until morning, and by then he could have made it back to his own room. For now, the master of the house was his. The cooler evening breeze made it through the high windows and ruffled their hair and Esca even felt it down the length of his spine. He raised his face from Marcus’ skin to smile at him.

“Do I not seem serious?” he asked. “I’m very serious about this.” He moved his hand up Marcus’ side as he slid down his body, tasting the day’s warmth and the bath’s coolness on him. His self-satisfied smile grew when he heard Marcus sigh. “Tell me about Arruns.” 

Marcus’ eyes snapped open again and he raised himself on his elbows to look down at Esca, whose chin was digging into his belly now. “Now?”

“Mmhmm. You’ll be asleep after.” Esca raised his eyebrows, but otherwise stayed exactly where he was. Marcus groaned and flopped down onto his back, both hands over his face.

“He is a man who was a friend of my father’s, a man who had connections and access to every glorious thing having to do with horses. The horse my father rode as he left for Britannia had been acquired for him by Arruns. It was Arruns who made arrangements for my own lessons, my first chariot. My mother relied on him, after my father was gone, to make sure that our own stable was well-kept.” Marcus paused, lost in memory for a moment before continuing. One of his hands came down to rest in Esca’s messy hair. “He bought horses of us as well, when our coffers faltered.” 

There was a silence in the room, and in the slow movement of fingers through his hair, Esca could feel Marcus weighing the estate now with his family’s past fortunes, both when his father had been the commander of a legion and when his father had been lost in the mists north of the Wall. 

“Now he returns when you have money to spend,” Esca said and Marcus leaned up to look at him again.

“Esca...it’s not like that. He is a friend of my family, and he seeks to involve us in his new venture.” He waited for a reply but received none. “Anyway, you speak as though you don’t want to race.”

“I will be the only Briton in the race,” Esca pointed out.

“And the only one riding a beast from the underworld,” Marcus said drily. 

“Arcus will run as though he had wings on his hooves,” Esca said, pinching Marcus’ side. “He will win us that mare and the coin.” 

“Ow!” Marcus slapped at Esca’s hand; his fingers were strong and rough with work. “I trust you! I promise you that. I don’t trust that demon horse, but I do trust you. Just don’t get so lost in the training that I lose you at table. And at night.”

“Ah, now we see your true fear.” Esca chuckled, putting his face down to laugh against Marcus’ skin. “Be comforted. Who am I to leave you alone?” His mouth left patches of wetness as he pressed himself down Marcus’ body, listening for the sounds that told him the precise spots his lover melted to. To think that it had been Marcus who had shown him what a kiss was. His body had known other actions, but the kiss? That had been solely Marcus’. 

Marcus now was exhaling in a shaky rush of air. “I know you wouldn’t. Not now. Not…” His words were lost in a quiet noise of pleasure when Esca’s mouth found its mark.


	2. Ad Carceres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the race grows closer, Esca throws himself into training. A visit to the newly-erected track puts him under Arruns' scrutiny once more.

The weeks that followed were filled with days spent in training for the race. Arcus had grown sure-footed on the terrains of the estate, though he still disliked the sight of water in the distance or anything he mistook for a great flapping of wings, even if it was just one of the field slaves shaking out a piece of cloth. 

But he was fast; he put the wind in Esca’s hair and the sound of the earth falling away behind them was like a thunderstorm. Control did not always come easily at times when he told Arcus to stop or turn, but that trust would come. What Esca yearned for were those open breakaways, hooves setting his heart’s rhythm as they covered miles and thought nothing of it. In fairness, and in the darkness of the still morning before the sun rose, Esca reminded himself that he needed to master Arcus now, saving those long, exhilarating runs until after the stallion knew that it was Esca’s place to make demands. Anything else was foolish. And in that quiet, as he lay in bed and planned his day, logic was the strongest voice in his head. The joy, inherent in the task, would feel more joyful once Arcus had steadied a bit, when he didn’t spook and didn’t try to take his head back. The race must be won by more than speed. His voice in his head as the sunlight flooded his room sounded so much like his father’s voice, and he sent a prayer along with his last exhalation before he sat up to start the day.

Out in the field with Arcus, something grabbed hold of him that had nothing to do with his planning and nothing to do with the logic of his father. He needed to run, as though the hounds of the underworld were snapping at his heels as Arcus seemed to feel them biting at his. Escape, escape, his heart sang in those moments of leaving, and he pressed Arcus into a run. With the long day over, his bare arms and the back of his neck too warm from the unyielding sun, his heart sang the home song and he would resolve that the next day would be the day he would concentrate on taming Arcus. 

Marcus came out to see him, an enthusiastic supporter as he leaned against the fence or helped Esca curry one of their other few horses. His own Sagitta shone as he was brushed out, the summer light brilliant on his chestnut coat as it coaxed out the red and gold from the deep brown. Those peaceful moments made it feel that the race wasn’t happening at all, the excitement in both of them subsiding into the still waters of contentment.

“We should go to see the track,” Marcus proposed one late afternoon when the sun had turned deep gold in the western sky. “Arruns has spared no expense, putting in seats for the observers of rank and making sure the track itself is packed and firm for racing.” He looked over Sagitta’s back, pausing with the coarse brush. “What do you say? Will you give yourself a short break, or do you tie yourself here to the stable? Maybe even sleep here tonight?”

Esca wrinkled his nose at him, a childish gesture that adulthood had not taken from him or molded into something more dignified. He’d fallen asleep before dinner the evening before and not been roused by his hunger, but had woken in confusion in the middle of the night wondering what had happened between the time he had sat down on his bed to change his shoes and that moment. When they’d broken their fast, Marcus had laughed over it and Esca had the feeling that he wouldn’t be living it down any time soon. 

“I’d be happy to see Arruns Horse-Master’s new track. I’ll ride Sol.” He rushed on before Marcus could say the thing his eyebrows indicated he was thinking. “Not because Arcus isn’t fit, but because I don’t want anyone else seeing him until the day.” Esca paused in his own currying, resting both hands on Sol’s strong back. “I tell you, Marcus, there has never been his like for speed. He has the northern wind in his lungs, and lightning dances in the muscles of his legs.” 

“Horses bring out the poet in you,” Marcus smiled, watching him with amused eyes. “I’m wondering what I’d have to do to get you to speak about me like that.” It was clear that he enjoyed the fire that competition put in Esca; his British lover hadn’t even complained about the higher than normal heat they’d been experiencing for the past week. It had brought out a golden glow in his skin, a color somehow still paler and cooler than his own olive skin. The backs of Esca’s ears, Marcus had noticed with some delight, still grew red with too much sun. 

“Hmm…” Esca theatrically looked over at him, tapping his chin in contemplation. “I wonder if we have a saddle in your size…” He laughed and ducked out of the way when Marcus threw his brush at him, then leaned down to pick it up. “You can’t have thought I wouldn’t say it?”  
“No, I knew, I knew the moment the words left my mouth.” Marcus grinned, catching the brush when Esca tossed it back to him. “But we’ll go to the track tomorrow. You may ride whomever you wish. It doesn’t matter the name of your mount; all will see you for the horseman you are.”

“Now who’s stealing the poet’s words?” Esca muttered, obviously pleased by the compliment. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the task at hand though Sol’s coat already gleamed. Marcus watched the crown of his lowered head for a moment and smiled to himself, then went back to his own brushing.

The track was busier than Esca had expected it to be when they arrived near noon the next day. The heat was, of course, oppressive, the sun baking the ground until it cracked under the pressure of summer. What grass remained on the outer edges of the track was yellowed and scorched, though there was greener pasture out beyond the racing area. True to his word, Arruns had applied his money to the venture without hesitation, and the track would lend glory to his reputation in the area. It was even and broad, with the long lanes lengthy enough to give horses the space to really build speed and corners sharp enough to separate the skilled riders from those dallying in a race for the boredom it alleviated in this sleepy region. 

There were three riders testing the grounds as they rode up. Marcus’ eyes went to the stands, some of which were still being built on the far side of the track. The nicer seating area on the side closest to them was already complete, more comfortable box seats that were currently being painted so the bare wood didn’t offend the senses of the more illustrious viewers. There were bright, even lines of red against the white base coat, accented with sharp black diamonds. Seeing an older man already using one of the benches, Marcus felt a little pang of envy; the ride hadn’t been kind to the ache that settled into his knee when he was on horseback for longer than half an hour, and he was ready to sit on something that didn’t move and put his foot up.

Esca didn’t notice the stands, much less the colors or the bearded man who was ignoring his son’s practice session. His fingers would winding through Sol’s dark mane as he gauged the skill of the three riders. One he immediately dismissed. It would be impossible to determine the ability of one who had so little interest in riding at that moment. The young man was on a chestnut mare who looked well from where Esca and Marcus waited by the gate, taller than the horses Esca had grown up with. But he dawdled by one of the fences that marked the boundary of the track, looking down from that great height to laugh with some friends who clustered on the other side. The other two riders were evenly taking their paces, neither putting his full effort into the ride. They both seemed skilled, with a similar riding style. Their faces, when Esca finally focused on them, were so alike that it would be difficult to tell one from the other. Twins, then, riding nearly identical white horses. There was something entitled to them, in the way they made sure to spread themselves out when they ran their horses, filling up their own space and then more around them. 

Which of these, if any, would he face on the actual day of the contest? Esca leaned down to rub Sol’s neck, then reminded himself that it would not be Sol on the track that day. This would be where he and Arcus would ride to glory, to the prize money and the mares that would create their dynasty. 

“Will you share your thoughts, Esca?” Marcus asked from beside him. 

Esca looked over quickly, blinking against the sun. He thought sometimes he would gain a perpetual squint just from looking around in these lands. Marcus was watching him with his dark eyebrows raised, his face a series of strokes of amusement. 

“What?” he asked stupidly.

“Your thoughts on the track,” Marcus said patiently, though his knowing smile was half a smirk. Damn the man, Esca thought. Does he see through me at every moment? 

“It’s very Roman,” he replied with a casual shrug. “You all love your rounded arenas, the horses tracking their courses around and around. The middle wall.” He swung down from Sol’s back, eyes already back on the track. “As you know, British races cover much more ground. They are not so controlled as this. With your starting gates and middle line and the posts...”

“Oh, I know. I remember the one you and I participated in,” Marcus said, getting down from his mount much more carefully than Esca had his. He’d learned that as much as his leg protested the saddle, it protested him jumping down even more. Glancing over at his companion, he was pleased to see the slighter man sputtering.

“That was no race! That was us running for our lives,” Esca managed finally.

Marcus laughed, walking his horse over to the rail. “You make everything sound so dramatic, Esca. Let’s just think of it as a British race that we won.” 

Before Esca could form his rage into words, another voice hailed them. His head went around like a deer’s at the telltale sound of a cracked stick on the forest floor. 

“Ah, you are here, finally, to see what we’ve been up to,” Arruns called as he walked over. He returned Marcus’ wave with a languid one of his own. He still wore those dark colors even in the intense heat, a dark blot against the whitewashed stand. “You’d written you might stop down this week. I’m glad to see you have.” He extended his hand to Marcus when he drew close, and Marcus clasped his wrist gladly.

“It seemed a good time, with enough of the track finished to get a good idea for it. It’s larger than I’d guessed!” Marcus said with enthusiasm. “It already seems to be getting some use.”

“There are already plenty of entrants on the list. I did you the favor of adding Esca.” Arruns turned his shrewd eyes to the other man and Esca counted himself brave for not squirming under that gaze. “I hope I didn’t overstep myself. You will be riding, will you not?”

“Of course,” Esca said coolly, hearing in his own voice the harsher consonants, the deeper vowels. The accent that marked him out. “None of those I see on the track today would put me off my intention.”

When Arruns laughed, it was just the way Esca imagined a snake would laugh. “Bold words, and precisely what I’d expect from a tribesman from Britannia. What was it again? Selvogae?” 

“Brigantes.” Esca felt himself biting off the end of the word, teeth sharp and feral. 

“Brigantes,” Arruns repeated with a relish that made Esca uncomfortable. Why didn’t he trust this man, this man who had been a figure for Marcus since childhood and who asked nothing of them now? “I am eager to see how one of the Brigantes rides.”

“Like a sharp wind from the North,” Marcus volunteered with a little sideways smile to Esca. Esca, as usual, tried to fight his own smile back and, as usual, only partly succeeded. “Will you take the track, Esca?”

“Yes, please do. Give our other contenders a taste for their competition.” Arruns leaned forward slightly, his features so sharp they cut through Esca’s protests before he’d made them. The eagerness he’d confessed was hungry, incredibly hungry, and something tightened in Esca’s belly as he was reminded of a ghost story his mother had told him about a winter spirit, a wight that roamed in silent starvation until it found a little body on which to feed. He was too old for stories like that now, and he’d learned how much worse living, actual people could be, but something about the story stuck in his head as he met and quickly looked away from Arruns’ eyes. 

He looked instead to Marcus and felt the warmth of the day return in his smile. “Show them, Esca. Put a little fear of your wild into them.” Only Marcus was allowed to say something like that because it was only Marcus who teased and loved together.

Esca put his hand to his horse’s neck, leaning in to whisper something not meant for human ears. Nodding once to Marcus, he pulled himself up into the saddle and settled himself. It was no Roman saddle; given the choice, he would always ride in the style of his people. Without looking back to Arruns, he slowly walked the horse to the entry gate, standing with him a moment and watching the other riders.

“Will you tell Arcus everything you see here today, Sol?” asked the horse quietly. The horse’s ears flicked back then forward again and Esca smiled slightly. “Are you jealous of him? Don’t be; his path was rougher than yours, and his speed was bought with terror. You are quick as the hare on a spring morning, but you don’t run to escape something at your heels that you think is there but isn’t.” He looked out over the track again. “Nonetheless, I think we can give these pretenders something to worry about.” 

He took the first time around at a light canter, a comfortable pace that let both him and Sol feel the ground. It was different than running their horses in the grass of the estate fields, more controlled and firm than tearing through the vineyards with Arcus. He could feel the eyes and disdain of the other riders, but they were insignificant. They thought that the prizes were theirs, but they didn’t know what Esca knew, that the money and the mare were already part of his plan, and that this pretty steed wasn’t the horse he intended to race.

The second lap, he tightened his thighs to let Sol know to pick up her pace. There was a certain joy in her gallop, as though while she knew she wasn’t a racing horse, she still loved the speed and the competition. The other horses on track, urged on suddenly by their riders, pushed forward, but they weren’t as well trained, regardless of their price, and their riders didn’t know them the way Esca knew each horse in their stable. There weren’t many, not yet, but he could have spoken for hours on each. There was little to prove in this impromptu race; Esca was the superior rider, through force of will if nothing else. The pounding of the other hooves was only a drum’s tattoo to him, a beat to march ahead of. There was no disguising the smile on his face, which was something wild and grim at the same time. The whole world was this race, and all his focus had narrowed down into this track, this horse, thrumming of hooves on dirt and his own heartbeat in his ears. 

By the whitewashed fencing, Marcus and Arruns watched this practice run, which seemed suddenly like a race in earnest. Marcus laughed when Esca and Sol thundered by them, seemingly pursued by the other riders rather than just engaging them in a test of speed. He turned to Arruns, whose keen eyes stayed on the leaders as they rounded the curve.

“What did I tell you, Arruns?” he asked cheerfully, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “Esca rides like the wind sings in his blood. He can bring the river-cool temperament of even the calmest horse to a boil in a race, and matched with the right mount, he becomes the very aspect of Mercury with the horse serving as the wings to his heels.” 

“I never doubted your word,” Arruns said, finally looking back to Marcus again. “Will he race this mare on the day?” 

“No...no, Esca has other plans.” Marcus couldn’t hide his wry expression, and he looked back to the track to see the riders behind Esca straining to make the most of the turn. Esca, for his part, didn’t seem to even recognize that he shared the track with anyone. His smile was one of ecstasy, the sort of joy that is god-given and half madness. Marcus thrilled to see it, feeling the little fires it kindled in him. 

“Other plans? I confess to not have seen your entire stable, but I am curious about which animal he would choose. He seems to know this one well.” Arruns’ tone was casual, but his eyes waited for the answers to his questions with the intensity of a hunter. Marcus, still watching the exhilaration on his lover’s face and taking pleasure in the dirt kicked up by Sol’s hooves, only heard the questions.

“It’s true, the stable isn’t large yet. Esca has great plans, and we’re choosing each animal carefully. He knows them better than I do. I can tell you a good horse from a bad, on the average, but Esca seems to look into their eyes and know them as if they spoke to him in words.” Marcus made a noise that was half wondering, half disapproving. “Sometimes I just have to trust him with his choices.”

“Ah...that beast we saw him ride when I came to the villa?” Arruns asked shrewdly. It wasn’t difficult to see where Marcus’ thoughts were tending.

“That was certainly a decision of Esca’s rather than mine,” Marcus conceded, comfortable talking to his father’s friend. “I hadn’t the heart to withhold my agreement; he took to the horse as if seeing something reflected in its eyes that was familiar. I felt that had I refused, it would have been like asking Esca to leave something of himself at the market.” Shaking his head once to dismiss the heaviness of the conversation, Marcus looked over at Arruns and smiled. “That’s a dramatic thing to say. You’ll forgive me. All I meant to say is that I leave the choice of horses up to Esca, including his mount for the race. He is the rider after all.”

“In Rome, a good rider is worth a great deal to those who own large and worthy stables. A rider can earn himself glory and gold riding the horse a master has chosen for him.” Arruns’ smile was unremarkable and mild; his choice of wording was not accidental.

“Esca has no master, and all the horses he rides are his own now. We jointly own the land and the stable, so he is master and rider in one,” Marcus clarified gently before looking back to the false race. Arruns watched Marcus’ profile as the young man watched the track, then smiled to himself and turned his head as well.

The practice didn’t end with a flag or someone calling the winner, it ended when Esca whistled loudly and brought Sol back down out of her run to trot it out on the long side of the track. Even as the other riders kept on past them, there was a breeze that lifted Esca’s hair and crowned him the victor. He was smiling as he walked Sol around to the side where Marcus and Arruns stood watching, out of breath and absurdly pleased.

“Something to drink?” Marcus offered as Esca exited the track.

“For both of us,” Esca said as he slid down from Sol’s back. He was still smiling, though some of the madness had melted from the corners of his smile and when he squinted against the sun, his lashes hid the wildness in them. “Sol took to the run with all her strength.”  
“She ran well,” Arruns put in, gesturing to one of his waiting slaves to get a drink for Esca. “Though Marcus tells me she is not your intended mount for the race. Are you training another?”

“I am,” Esca said shortly, trying to avoid his eyes. “But I like to keep my options open. Your track is good, for a Roman thing. A Roman style. The ground is even and there is room for movement.” He tossed a look back over his shoulder at the track. The riders he had bested were clustered on the far side, their horses restless as they spoke to one another. Was it vanity to assume they were talking about him or simply basic fact to acknowledge? He looked back as a drink was offered to him, watered wine that settled the dust in his throat. Another slave had brought a bucket of water for Sol, and she drank gratefully. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, knowing he spoke for both of them. He was unsurprised by the surprised look as the slave looked up; he was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and rough hands, though his body was strong and straight. When their eyes met, Esca felt a flare of panic as though the man would see something in him and call out that he was an imposter. The long-healed cut on his ear seemed to flare with a quick, sharp pain, hidden as it was by his hair. Had Marcus figured out that he was growing it out not as a way to look more like his clan had in his youth but to hide that mark of slavery? But the slave just ducked his head quickly and muttered something too quiet to hear as he turned away and went back to his work on the stands. 

Marcus and Arruns were talking, Marcus animated and lively, Arruns leading him with questions and his own half-smile. Esca sipped his wine, letting the words filter through him without really taking their meaning. Sometimes he liked to turn it off, the part of his brain that translated the Latin words and made sense of them in his British head, then flipped the words he wanted to say over to Latin to send them out of his mouth again. It wasn’t until he realized that Marcus was bidding farewell to Arruns that he tuned back in to what was going on right there. His mind had been back at the estate, thinking of how to get Arcus to trust him in those curves, how it would feel to press into the corners with him. How victory would smell.

“Esca?” Marcus was watching him, Arruns watching Marcus. Esca blinked and looked from one to the other. “Is that a good day, do you think?”

What could he say? That he had not been simply ignoring them, but pretending he didn’t know the language they were speaking? Esca smiled a little and nodded. “Yes, a good day.”

Marcus nodded with satisfaction, looking back to Arruns. “Then we’ll come to dinner next week. We can discuss the wager there. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you see Esca ride.”

“I had seen it already, and I have known not to underestimate the tribesmen of Britannia,” Arruns said smoothly as Marcus mounted his horse. His eyes slid over to Esca and he found himself still, one hand on Sol as he had prepared to get up onto her back. This man, Esca thought, does not know how to lose. He always finds a win in any situation. He will seek to somehow come away from this race richer and more respected than the one who rides to victory. Esca swallowed and pulled himself up onto Sol’s back.

“You think you have a better rider,” he said quietly, taking some pleasure in the little flash of surprise in Arruns’ eyes. “I assure you, you do not.” He nodded to him. “Thank you for welcoming us today. It was a joy to ride on your new track.”

Arruns swept a bow that made his long body look like a snake’s, coiling and swaying before a strike. It was only Marcus’ smile that kept Esca from bolting, but he did let his hand trace the mark against evil where it sat on his thigh.

“You are a horse master, Esca, and a fine contender in this race. I look forward to learning what horse you will ride, as you are so secretive about this veritable Pegasus. Perhaps I might tease it out of you at dinner next week,” he said.

Not even if you tried to tease it out of me with a pitchfork, Esca thought to himself as he nodded to Arruns again in farewell.

“Good luck with that,” Marcus laughed as he started to walk his horse back to the road. “Teasing Esca only gets you a black eye.” He glanced back and laughed again at the expression on Arruns’ face. “Until dinner, Arruns! Be well!” He waved as Esca fell into step beside him. 

Esca didn’t look back. It was bad enough to feel Arruns’ eyes on his back as though spiders crawled on his skin. 

“It is a good track, don’t you think? You rode as though to scare them all off,” Marcus said after a bit as they rode toward the villa. 

“But they remained,” Esca said easily. “I don’t think my few laps would be enough to make a rider withdraw his name from the list.” He did wonder if word of his speed would spread and lead to more riders looking to completely discredit him in the coming race. The thought of it tugged up the corner of his mouth. Let them try.

“What are you smiling about?” Marcus demanded with a grin. “It’s such a wicked smile!” He watched Esca a moment. “You’re thinking about how you’re going to show them all up when you win, aren’t you?”

The accuracy of his guess pulled a little laugh from Esca before he meant to. “Well…” He started to argue but Marcus raised his eyebrows and Esca gave up. “Alright, it’s true. I was thinking of that. A bit.”

“A bit! You’re already thinking of the clever words you’ll say when you accept the prize purse,” Marcus said, chuckling. “So tell me then, Esca. How will I keep myself from kissing you, once you have won?”

Again, it was such an unexpected question that Esca couldn’t help but laugh. That’s what Marcus was thinking about during all this? At least he hadn’t asked him again not to ride Arcus. After this trial run, Esca knew there was no other horse he would ride in the race. 

“You’re a Roman,” he reminded his lover. “You are stoic and have restraint that would make your philosophers proud. You will manage to contain yourself until you are able to pull me away somewhere private, somewhere small and dark that will only fit us two. Then you can give in and celebrate our win the way you think best.”

“Your win, Esca. You are the one who will ride to victory.” Marcus’ sense of fair play was almost too much for Esca some days. He reached over and touched his thigh.

“Our win. The victory will be for the glory of our stables,” he said. The sun was so hot as it shone down on the road. Esca wondered if it was Rome that had cut down the trees that must have been here before. As the sweat rolled down his neck and down the indentation of his spine, he cursed their interference for the thousandth time.

The Roman he rode alongside, however, smiled brightly as the sun and Esca smiled back at him. “Alright. Our win. Will you come in and sit with me for a bit when we get back, or will you head straight to your horses and their training?”

Again, Marcus’ knowledge of him was as unerring as an arrow. He took a deep breath before answering.

“We will sit for a little time, then I’ll go out, just to see that they’re settled for the night. Then I’ll return to the villa again and you can read aloud.” It was an evening ritual for them, Esca working the tightness out of Marcus’ leg with his hands while Marcus read aloud from stories that he had grown up with, legends of Rome. 

“I’ll accept that,” Marcus said easily. “Then tomorrow?”

“Back to training,” Esca finished for him. “Now that we’ve seen the finish line, we must work our way over it.” 

They rode in silence a little longer, a companionable silence with the rhythm of their horses hooves on the road and the hum of insects in the tall grass and the combined songs of birds in the bushes and trees that stood a bit back from the road. 

“What’s ‘Pegasus?’” Esca asked abruptly.   
“What?” Marcus had been in his own little reverie and looked over at Esca with some confusion. 

“What’s ‘Pegasus?’” Esca repeated impatiently. 

“Oh, um...Pegasus is a creature out of the stories of the Greeks. He is a winged horse belonging to the hero Perseus.” Marcus tilted his head, thinking. “Or...well, I know he came about when Perseus beheaded Medusa. There was someone else who actually rode him, another hero…Why do you ask?”

“I just heard the word and wondered what it meant,” Esca said airily. “A winged horse. You Romans will believe anything.” 

“It’s a Greek story!”

Esca hummed, shaking his head. “Romans.” While Marcus launched into a defense of Greek myths, which was somehow supposed to also uphold Roman logic, Esca let himself daydream again. Arcus could have had wings, such was his speed and his power. If he had known the word before today, perhaps he would have named the horse Pegasus. Having heard the name first from Arruns made no difference. It wasn’t Arruns’ story to tell.

“So you see, while some of the symbols remain the same, there is no reason to confuse the two,” Marcus finished proudly.

“What?” Esca asked as he turned his head toward him. 

“Were you even listening?” Marcus demanded.

“To you? No. I was thinking about something else. Could you repeat it?” Esca asked with a tiny, obnoxious smile. 

“Could I...Esca!”

“Race you to some shade!” Esca called out as he urged Sol to a run. Inspired by her earlier success, the horse leapt forward. Marcus only hesitated long enough to curse Esca lovingly under his breath before he chased after him, as Esca knew he would.


	3. Vivamus, Moriendum Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the race drawing closer, Esca's time is divided between his horse and Marcus. He's determined to do whatever he can to make his name the one spoken of when victory is called. How long can that sort of pressure last?

“Will you run him down by the vineyard?” Marcus asked quietly, voice gravelly with sleep. The morning sky was still streaky with the remnants of night, with a golden haze rising over the land outside the bedroom window. Esca’s paler eyes were already on the distance as he sat up in the bed, the sheet pooled around his hips. Marcus, less inclined to rise, had rolled over onto his stomach and flung an arm to curve around Esca’s waist, content to lie just like that. He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.

“I think I will; it’s good for him to measure himself along those long lines. It gives him some practice for the lanes of the track.” Esca looked down at Marcus and smiled, running callused fingers through his mussed dark hair. Marcus would trim it soon, he knew, keeping it to legion standard. But for now there was a little more length to it, a little more to touch. Esca preferred it this way, though he wouldn’t say anything about it when Marcus cut it again. 

“Send someone else,” Marcus suggested, voice muffled against the bed. 

“No one else will go near Arcus still. You know that.” His fingers stilled in Marcus’ hair. There was nothing to be done about the stories that he heard around the villa. Most of the slaves didn’t even bother to say them out of his hearing. He wasn’t sure if it was because they thought they were protecting him or because they thought of him as one of them, not a master of the house who shouldn’t hear the whispering of slaves. It was unclear which was preferable. Nonetheless, he knew the stories. The horse was a murdering beast that had already killed three riders. He was a horse that had been born in the underworld and released to torment the living. That he was sent by a druid, set all over with a curse meant to appease the gods so insulted by the Roman occupation. Even this far south, in lands that had been colonized by Rome for this long, stories like that popped up. While Esca knew it was all nonsense, when Arcus rolled his eyes and his hot breath blew against Esca’s neck, there was something unworldly about him, and something that seemed to hum in his deep chest with a yearning for blood.

Obviously, he never mentioned any of this to Marcus. He wasn’t that much of a fool. 

“Because they have a sense of self-preservation that you do not,” Marcus said, turning his head and opening one eye to squint up at Esca. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“You haven’t needed any guidance thus far,” Esca answered with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Marcus shook his head and pressed his face against Esca’s thigh. 

“Untrue,” he muttered against his bare skin. Esca could only understand him because he knew him as well as he did, knew every vibration of his voice. In love, in pain, in passion, in sorrow, in delight. “I make offerings every other week for answers to the question of you.”

Esca smiled down at him again, enjoying the morning light on Marcus’ shoulder, the curve of his bicep, the gloss of his black hair. As focused as he was on the race, there would be some joy in the time after it, when he could indulge Marcus and lazily stay in bed to midday, talking about things that were important and things that were trivial and giving them both the same amounts of gravity and amusement. For now, he had to satisfy himself with quickly leaning over to press his face against Marcus’ bare back. He savored the sensation, skin on skin, Marcus’ heart somewhere below his cheek, the rumble of his complaints echoing in his rib cage. It was a tease for him, reminding him that this is what he had, and that this is what the end of the day’s training would bring him back to. 

Sitting up, Esca yawned again, stretching his arms up to clasp the opposite elbow over his head before sliding himself out from under Marcus’ arm.

“Already?” Marcus asked, pillowing his cheek on his arm as he watched Esca stand. “I thought I’d managed to talk you into ten more minutes. Ten more minutes won’t matter.”

“Ten minutes means I miss the chance to break my fast,” Esca said, grabbing his tunic from the floor. 

“Ten minutes means you can eat your bread while walking to the stables, but you’ll have ten minutes’ comfort lying with me.” Marcus smirked, the expression made comically crooked by the way his arm squished his cheek. “I’ll rub the back of your neck.”

Sighing, Esca turned back to the bed, belt in hand and tunic hanging haphazardly. This was how he got him every time. Marcus knew just what to offer. Ten minutes was a short time, truly. He tried to ignore Marcus’ smug chuckle as he climbed back into bed, though he was unable to withhold the undignified noise he made when the Roman wrapped his arm around him and dragged him close again.

“There...it’s easier for me to get at you this way,” Marcus said as he pulled Esca’s head onto his shoulder. Esca huffed like a puppy unwilling to be held, then he immediately relaxed when Marcus’ strong hand clasped the back of his neck. Generally, he was the one to put massaging hands on Marcus when the muscles in his leg tightened up around his old wound. But Marcus rubbing his neck was a specific pleasure, one that made him close his eyes and let his body relax against Marcus’ side. 

“I like this. I think I can hear you purring,” Marcus said quietly. “Ow! Don’t pinch me! Put those claws away!”

It was more than ten minutes by the time Esca was out the door. Much more time had passed than he’d intended, but it was difficult to deny Marcus’ hands. So he ate his bread, filled as it was with a mixture of chopped nuts and dried fruits, as he headed toward the stables. As he walked, the distance from the villa brought him closer to Arcus, and his thoughts shifted as well. 

What would it be like to win here, in a place that was not his home? He had won races among the boys of his own age in his tribe, even challenging himself with the young men who were older than he was, determined to outrun them all. Now he stretched his arms up to a sky that hadn’t beamed down on his other triumphs, and it didn’t know his tragedies either. He had never been a slave under this sky. What would they think, the watchers, as he left the other riders behind? This was not chariot racing, that preferred Roman game with horses. His own people loved it as well-- for half a second, Esca let his mind’s eye recreate the image of his father’s eyes, bright as sun on water, as he drove his pair of horses before him, the rims of the chariot wheels edges in gold. The chieftain, the warlord, the protector of the Brigantes, Bearers of the Blue Shield. 

A bird screamed overhead and he looked up, momentarily blinded by the rising sun. Esca tripped, foot catching in an uneven depression in the ground, and caught himself before falling. He stood for a moment, hand still extended to stop the fall that didn’t happen. The raptor he’d heard wasn’t visible anywhere in the cloudless sky, and Esca turned in a slow circle with his chin tilted up as he looked for it. 

An omen, his grandmother would have said, her eyes brown as sun-warmed earth and green around the rims. She watched the world with a knowing he hadn’t been born with, and as he understood it, that was the only way to get it. So he looked out at the world with eyes that were trained to see, but without the inner knowing that would tell him what it meant. It was worse than seeing nothing, to see omens and not be sure what they meant. 

The bird was gone, or had never been there. Esca wasn’t sure which he preferred. Instead, he let his practical mind take over, that side of himself that would move his arms and legs and mouth no matter what was happening in the world. It was probably already wheeling past, that part of his mind said with studied ease. A hawk already past him before taking its dive across the field to catch a rabbit. He wrinkled his nose as he started walking down the path again. Was that any better? A disappearing bird or the second before a rabbit’s death. 

When he walked into the stable and saw Arcus watching for him, the thought of the raptor was gone. 

“Are you eager for me or for your breakfast?” he asked quietly, voice indulgent with fondness. He was no fool; he knew that Arcus was not a mild horse, and likely never would be, but they had a bond between them that he trusted. More importantly, he could tell that Arcus trusted him. No more shudders ripples under his dark coat when Esca touched him, and the snuffling sounds he made were unmistakable sounds of pleasure.

As he fed the horses and brought in fresh water, cleaning out the stable, he spoke to Arcus. It was easy to confess worries and dreams to a horse with such intelligent eyes. By the time he was saddling him for a ride, Esca felt unburdened. Marcus was overreacting with his fears. The race was meant to be won by him. The money would go to the stable and the western porch Marcus wanted to rebuild. 

“You know what this is, don’t you?” he whispered against Arcus’ ear, smiling when the ear twitched back at him. “A chance for both of us. Not a second beginning. We don’t need that. One beginning was plenty.” Esca sat up and took a deep breath, then clicked his tongue to get Arcus walking out of the yard.

The amber beginnings of the sunset found Marcus in the square garden he favored after dinner, a dinner he’d eaten alone. It wasn’t unusual, these days, with Esca staying out with his horses until darkness forced him back to the villa. Marcus found himself trying to convince himself that he didn’t mind, that the time alone was good; he’d caught up on some reading, and the estate’s books were up-to-date. But he’d grown too used to Esca’s constant presence; even though he was no longer a slave, Esca was always there with him. To talk, to laugh, even to just sit in companionable silence. The evening stretched out in longer, lonely minutes, and Marcus sat with the scroll on his lap unread by the bright glow of the lamp that one of the slaves had set beside him. Instead, he watched the evening breeze move the almond-shaped leaves of the carefully pruned trees that edged the garden and inhaled to take the time identifying all the herbs that were growing in the neatly laid out beds. Rosemary, thyme, basil. He also caught himself more than once sitting still to listen, his ears straining to filter out the usual house sounds behind him in the villa. He was listening, he knew without knowing, for the distinctive sound of Esca walking through the house, the way the soles of his sandals demanded the stones of the floor to be there, to rise to meet him with each footstep. Marcus had never known anyone who walked like that, not even during his time in the legion. It wasn’t the step of a military commander. It was the step of a chieftain’s son who had never forgotten that that’s what he was, underneath whatever other labels Rome had put on him. With a wry smile at the gathering clouds that were sweeping in with the evening, Marcus considered his own gait, the slight limp that would forever shorten his left stride and would likely only worsen as the years passed. What did the echo of his passage through a hall make others think of? A veteran of the wars? A burden who slowed the steps of others? 

“A man getting too comfortable with his own conversation,” Marcus muttered aloud, rolling his eyes at his own maudlin contemplations. He needed Esca to relieve him of his one-sided thoughts. They were of no use to anyone, least of all him. His lover was not the type to burst into a room with excited stories, popping the bubble of solitude a man had created for himself. Rather, Esca slide himself quietly into Marcus’ bubble and joined him there, disarming any of Marcus’ self-damaging thoughts, making him laugh with the sharpness of his sarcasm, before finally drawing him into the stories of the day. Reaching for his wine, Marcus longed for his company again. Those damned horses were getting all the benefits of it. 

Before he could take a sip, Marcus was interrupted by the sound of sandals in the corridor behind him, and he had already turned in his chair. Not Esca’s footsteps, but the half-run of an anxious slave coming to give him news.

“Master,” Luccorvus said breathlessly, twisting his hands in front of himself. He worked his way down one hand, holding and twisting each finger before switching to the other hand. Marcus felt that he couldn’t look away. “Master, you must come at once.”

Marcus stood in a rush, not hearing the clatter of the wine glass as it fell, not minding the scroll as it dropped from his lap to the garden paving stones. He knew without being told, had felt the evening drawing out too long in the time by himself.

“Esca,” he breathed as he stepped forward.

“They brought him in, master,” Luccorvus explained almost tearfully. He was an older man, and he moved with as much speed as he could. “The horse returned to the stable without him, agitated. It was the horse that led them back to him, rolling its eyes and snorting. He must have been thrown. The medicus has been sent for.” 

Marcus wished for wings on his heels; the villa had never seemed so large as he made his way to Esca’s room. There was a flurry of hushed activity within, more lamps lit than would normally be used to illuminate the room. At the center, Esca lay limp on his bed, pale as a freshly-carved statue. There was blood staining the sheets and Marcus’ stomach rolled as if he had never seen blood before.

“Esca, Esca.” His name was the only word that would form in his mouth, in his head. When had he ever seen him lie so still; even in sleep he had a potential movement in his limbs. Marcus caught up his hand where it hung over the side of the sleeping couch, not caring what eyes were watching as he pressed it to his mouth. Esca’s fingers were cold and tasted of dust.

One of the other slaves looked over from where she was bathing Esca’s face. “His heart beats still, master,” she whispered hurriedly. “Only he must have struck his head on a stone. He will not wake.”

“He will wake,” Marcus replied almost reflexively. He massaged the hand he held, trying to bring warmth back to Esca’s still fingers as he raised his eyes to his face. Esca’s hands weren’t soft; they were callused and cut from the work he did, the work he had always done; chieftain’s son or slave, he had never been idle. Now, Esca’s mouth was open slightly, head lolling to the side against the pillow his blood was marking. Marcus willed him to open his eyes. Look at me, he begged silently. Esca’s chest rose in shallow, slow movements, and Marcus willed that ebb and flow as well. 

It was difficult to look at him and impossible to look away. The wound that was still reddening the pillow seemed to have taken away any color the sun had given Esca’s naturally fair complexion. He seemed white now, even when the dust was washed away. Again, the stillness of his body, the slackness of his face, made Marcus’ body go cold. His lips were still silently shaping Esca’s name, and each word was a prayer. To his lover, to his gods, to Esca’s gods, to whomever was listening. Wake up, wake up, wake up, he begged into the silence that was broken by the slaves whispering and Esca’s uncomfortable breathing. When the deep sob came, Marcus didn’t even know that he had made it until he felt his chest hollow with the gasping inhale that followed it and the tears that were dropping onto Esca’s limp fingers in his hand.


	4. Chapter 4: Hinc Illae Lacrimae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the depths of the darkness, Esca's memories of the past begin to surface.

The water ran over him from a spigot in the wall, from the mouth of a grotesque round-cheeked demon carved in stone. Esca ducked into it again, marveling at the warmth of it as it plastered his pale hair to his forehead, over his ears, down the back of his neck and onto his shoulders. Even with all the warnings he’d received, no one had taken a knife to his hair yet, provided he didn’t put it up in warrior knots. Instead, he kept the front braided back, trying to comb it over his notched ear every day. Working in the slave quarters, he kept his name to himself. His father’s name to himself. He could be just Esca. Esca who was quiet in his anger that burned hotter than the fires it was his task to keep up throughout the house. He was young, and he’d thought the Roman bastards would work him harder. But the older slaves watched him and shook their head, as though he was walking toward the edge of a cliff and couldn’t see it, but they wouldn’t shout out a true warning, so he just continued to walk. He just continued to make the fires and carry water.

And now he had been chosen to serve at the centurion’s table, on a night when he and his wife had guests. So he’d been told to clean up and there was a fresh white tunic waiting in a folded square on the trestle table beside a scented oil, a comb, and his earrings. The bath slave, with his sagging jowls and his British ruined by long years of speaking Latin with his masters, stood by with a towel, and another slave, this one from Anatolia with a straight back and eyes darker than night, watched every moment of Esca’s bath, snapping out orders. Having only been a slave less than a year, Esca didn’t understand half of what he said, and he didn’t care about any of it, but he was tired today as he was often tired, so he obeyed the commands he knew and looked to the old saggy slave, a man of the Iceni, to translate for him when he didn’t. 

“Behind your ears!”

“Once again under your arms, boy!”

He was always ‘boy,’ as if the Anatolian slave would not even deign to learn his name. Each time he was called ‘boy,’ Esca repeated his name to himself so he could hear it inside his head, said properly as no Roman bastard said it. Esca. The ‘s’ soft and the ‘c’ hard, skin then bone. Esca.

The Anatolian said something else, but this time Esca’s head was under the water and there were too many words he didn’t know. So there was nothing to obey, for a moment at least. More words followed, likely the same words, but they meant nothing more than they had before, so Esca felt free to continue to ignore them.

A sharp slap on the back of his wet shoulder spun him around in immediate fury. How dare they! Wasn’t it enough that they looked him over like a pig to butcher, seeing the scars he bore as lines of shame on his body? Would they hurt him again to learn the depth of his pain? Like poking a long stick into a pool of water, into a spot on the river, to test if it was safe for swimming just as his elder cousin Nechtan had taught him and that he had dutifully taught his younger siblings in his own time. There were so many things children had to teach one another in the world because no one else would. There were songs and rules, superstitions and the stepping stones to doing the bigger things your elders would expect you to be started on already. Who had sung those songs to children at the very beginning? 

“What?” he snapped, hearing at once that his voice was a warcry. The Anatolian heard it as well and glared at him. There were threats in his eyes; Esca went still. 

“Scrub the back of your neck. Or I will have Lugubelenus wash it until it is clean because it has been rubbed raw,” the tall slave said in clear icy tones. Esca understood enough of that to take his meaning. He pressed his mouth, leaning his head down and bowing to the water. His goddess, he reminded himself, was a protector of water. His name was beloved of water. Esca. He whispered it to himself, the water from the stone monster’s mouth running down the sides of his face and dripping from his lips as they formed the shapes. The cloth was rough against the tender skin of his neck as he rubbed at it more harshly than he thought was truly needed. It was a terrible feeling, to bow his head this way as though waiting for the blow of an axe. 

Esca straightened up to put a lie to the shiver that ran up his back from his tailbone to the base of his skull. He tossed his hair back, grinning to himself at the loud sounds of dismay coming from his minders; it was the joy of a puppy shaking itself off all over its owner in gleeful revenge. When he turned his head, his wet hair was stuck to his shoulders and the Anatolian was looking at him with loathing. Esca relished it; the tall slave was a representative of his hated new masters, and anything Esca could do to punish them in some small way was something good. He himself had wanted to die in those early days, when he had hoped his wounds would take him to a reunion with his family. But now, living was his revenge. A Briton alive was the threat of revolt at some time in the future. He wanted those Roman bastards to think that every time they looked at him, to feel the shiver in their own spines that was death walking with its eyes open. 

“Step away from there,” the Anatolian said in a harsh voice. “Dry and dress yourself.” Esca saw him looking at his hair with planning eyes and his stomach clenched. Would this be the time they sheared him like a sheep? “And comb your hair!” 

Esca scrubbed at himself with the drying cloth, listening to the quieter words the Anatolian spoke to Lugubelenus with more care than he normally did. He wanted to know why his cleanliness had become so important. Generally when he served the higher slaves, as long as he washed his hands and his feet, there was no more asked. 

“Master Scipio will be watching the boy closely. It will be an honor to you if he presents well and is asked after, Lugubelenus.” The words were nearly whispered, though both knew that Esca only understood half of what was said at any given time. Now he was muffled under the drying cloth, apparently completely consumed by the vigorous drying of his hair. How could they know that his father had praised him for the acuteness of his hearing, like a hunting dog alerted by the nearly silent deer?

“When will I know?” the old man asked in his soft voice, hands clasped before him. Esca could only see his hands as he peered out from beneath the towel. “If the master is pleased and wishes more of him?”

The Anatolian made an impatient noise as he stepped away. 

“Make him presentable and send him along to the kitchen. That is your concern for now. Remind him to be respectful and silent, to stand with his eyes down, to anticipate Master Scipio’s needs. None of those monkey antics he showed when he was helping in the stable. Respect and silence, a sweet smile, obedience.” 

Esca knew those words. They were likely the ones he heard the most often, learned even before he knew the words for the things around him like towel and oil. His upper lip pulled up into a sneer before he could stop himself. Obedience. To his oppressors? Only sometimes, when he couldn’t bear to be beaten again. So he would serve at table, he thought as he pulled the clean tunic over his head, as a way to get closer to the Roman bastard. Eventually he would be close enough to use his father’s knife and gut him like a pig. 

He’d been happier in the stables, happy to be close to the breathing of the horses. But when he’d tried to mount one of the mares and ride her out into the yard, it was a crime in the eyes of all around him. He, Esca, who had been thrown onto the back of a horse before he could walk, who knew the feel of a horse’s muscles beneath him as though they were part of his own body. He, a chieftain’s son, a warlord of his own before the Roman bastards had overridden the Brigantes’ rebellion and put them to the sword or forced them into slavery. He felt like the last of his tribe and had, for a moment, found home on the back of that beautiful mare. The beating he’d received after had been nothing but physical pain. Being banished to the house was a pain that didn’t heal.

“Yes, yes, of course. Esca will be as patient as a maiden, as quiet as the stillness before dawn,” old Lugubelenus promised in his quavering voice. “Master Scipio must be pleased by him, and call for him again.” 

The Anatolian was about to answer when he looked over and saw Esca watching them both with his unwavering gaze. 

“Boy! If you wear that face when you serve at the master’s table, I will see you are beaten until you find no rest!” He flicked his fingers upward, a gesture Esca had come to know though he didn’t understand the meaning behind it. “Do not look so surly as if you will start a brawl. Look pleasant! Do not hold yourself so stiffly. Unclench your jaw. You are there to be a pleasant thing for the master to look upon as you make yourself useful.” He shook his head dismissively. “All of you Britons are too pale to have any beauty, but the master has seen your face and thinks there is promise in your body. Serve him well tonight.” He paused as though about to admit a great secret. “You could do well here, boy, if only you learn to serve your master in all his needs.”   
The Anatolian turned away from him and walked with long strides toward the door, his sandaled feet slapping against the tile floor.

“Comb his hair,” he said in parting, the words clipped. 

“Comb your own hair,” Esca muttered under his breath as he wrapped the belt around his waist. 

He hated the pull of the comb the way old Lugubelenus dragged it through his hair, the teeth scraping against his scalp as though he was ploughing a field. It made his head feel tight and his scalp almost hot, like his head was burning. His mother had hummed as she combed out his hair, his brothers’ hair, his sister’s. She had hummed, unperturbed, as she worked out snarls and leaves, the things that children become one with if they’re left to play for longer than ten minutes. Her hands were steady on the comb, the muscles of her forearms strong through the making of bread and chopping of wood, yet she was careful with their hair, the pale gold hair of her children. She combed each lock smooth, then at the last she combed the sleek piece of hair around her finger to give the end a little curl before she released it to start the next. 

Even though he vowed he would make no noise, it was somehow agony to have the comb yanking through the tangles in his long hair as Lugubelenus showed no patience. It hurt, it hurt like burning, and Esca couldn’t stop himself as he raised one hand to his head to stop the pain. The soft moan that escaped his lips was neither British or Roman; it was a universal language his heart knew better than any other now.


End file.
